<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>all the world's a stage by partywitharichzombie</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25843945">all the world's a stage</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/partywitharichzombie/pseuds/partywitharichzombie'>partywitharichzombie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>tell me a piece of your history [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Formula 1 RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Cameos by Horsey Albon; Max; and Lily, Drinking, F/M, Featuring a news article format to unleash my inner Fantano, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Mentions of/References to Death, Minor Character(s), Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Multiple, Smoking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:55:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,293</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25843945</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/partywitharichzombie/pseuds/partywitharichzombie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><b>The Guardian</b> Hairpin Turns at Glastonbury 2022 Review - triumphant sunset set from the Pyramid Stage debutant<br/>★★★★★<br/><i>Blending poetic exposition with experimental fare, the virtuosic yet emotionally charged performance is as intimate as it is enthralling</i></p><p>The forty-eight hours leading up to Hairpin Turns' performance at Glastonbury Festival, through the lens of the members of the four-piece band.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexander Albon/Lily Muni He, Charles Leclerc/George Russell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>tell me a piece of your history [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901857</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Hairpin Turns at Glastonbury 2022 Review | Hairpin Turns | Guardian</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<p></p><div class="guardian"><p class="category">
    <span>Glastonbury 2022</span>
  </p><p class="headline">
    <span>Hairpin Turns at Glastonbury 2022 Review - triumphant sunset set from the Pyramid Stage debutant </span>
  </p><p class="stars">★★★★★</p><p class="subtitle">
    <span>Blending poetic exposition with experimental fare, the virtuosic yet emotionally charged performance is as intimate as it is enthralling</span>
  </p>
<hr class="hr1"/><p>
    <span><span class="dropcap">L</span>ooking back to their set at the John Peel Stage in 2016, the meteoric rise of Londoners George Russell (vocals, guitar), Alexander Albon (bass guitar, keyboards), Lando Norris (drums, percussions) and lone Monégasque Charles Leclerc (guitar, keyboards) comes with little surprise. Through the haze of the saturated industry they stood out with the release of their genre bender EP </span>
    <span class="link">Crab Nebula.</span>
    <span> Now two albums in, they continue to stand out with the tongue-in-cheek social commentary intersped with deeply personal exposition in their music.</span>
  </p><p>
    <span>The flow of time seems to slow when they hit the stage, truly bewitching is their stage presence. Confined to production constraints (pyrotechnics and elaborate stage props are reserved for headliners), Russell's launching into the acapella opening notes of </span>
    <span class="link">Winter's Wake</span>
    <span> from their sophomore </span>
    <span class="link">Butterfly Effect</span>
    <span> is just as show-stopping a spectacle. One by one the rest of the instruments ebb in, pianissimo of sweeping layers of guitars at first, flourishing into a fortissimo of a harmonious wall of sound before it explodes into the rapid gunfire of Albon's bass riff.</span>
  </p><p>
    <span>The breadth of what Hairpin Turns have to offer inspires awe: the glittering pop-turned-around-its-head of their newly released single  <span class="link">Cookie Cutter Comedy Club</span>, the prog rock-inspired, politically charged grandeur of Kingpin; the arresting, candid emotional wallop of Zero Hour. The propulsive, shattering clatter of </span>
    <span class="link">Penrose Stairs</span>
    <span> electrifies the air as the sun bids farewell, transitioning into the intricate yet sweet melancholia of the piano coda, Chopin's Nocturne No. 20 in C-Sharp Minor tuned to eleven, a vivid boast of Leclerc's skill.</span>
  </p><p>
    <span> Remarkable as they are as performers, the connection Hairpin Turns manage to establish with the audience is not to be understated. From leading chants to celebrate  <span class="link">England's going through to the World Cup semifinal</span> to bizarre tour anecdotes to stabs of self-deprecating humour to Albon's crowd surfing, there is an endearing charm in the contrast between the banter of the young lads who </span>
    <span class="link">started experimenting with making music at Year 10</span>
    <span> and the trailblazing music they are now making.</span>
  </p><p>
    <span>Finally, the title track of their debut album </span>
    <span class="link">Aphantasia</span>
    <span> brings the audience to bellow along. The off-the-wall time signature and math rock-esque rhythm transitioned to the anthemic chorus as abrupt as changing tides. It is the atypical hit single truly befitting a closer to the triumphant set, showing off Russell's remarkable range as a guitar player and songwriter as well as Norris' impeccable grasp of pulse and tempo, establishing Hairpin Turns as very much deserving to get a nod at headlining in the future.</span>
  </p><p>
    <span class="italic"> Setlist: </span>
  </p><p>
    <em></em>
  </p><p>
    <span class="italic">Winter's Wake </span>
  </p><p>
    <span class="italic">Mercurochrome </span>
  </p><p>
    <span class="italic">Cookie Cutter Comedy Club </span>
  </p><p>
    <span class="italic">Narcissus </span>
  </p><p>
    <span class="italic">Ghostwritten Recipes </span>
  </p><p>
    <span class="italic">You Are </span>
  </p><p>
    <span class="italic">Kingpin </span>
  </p><p>
    <span class="italic">Hunter/Haunted </span>
  </p><p>
    <span class="italic">Guenièvre </span>
  </p><p>
    <span class="italic">Dance Dance Dance </span>
  </p><p>
    <span class="italic">Taurus A </span>
  </p><p>
    <span class="italic">Zero Hour </span>
  </p><p><br/>
</p><p>
    <span class="italic">Penrose Stairs </span>
  </p><p>
    <span class="italic">Aphantasia </span>
  </p></div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Lando</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>As performers, Hairpin Turns were given access to the hospitality areas, were offered to stay the weekend bathed in luxury at the Winding Lake or the Tipi Farm, or could use campervans at the very least, if they so wished. What was Glastonbury without the good ol' cramped, slightly crooked tents and near-zero amount of sleep, though.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Lando floated the idea to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>proper</span>
  </em>
  <span> camping with their managers and crews, all of them agreed immediately. To remind themselves of their humble beginnings, Alex had said, semi-serious. Their camp was still situated near the interstage area between the Pyramid and the Other Stage so they had ease of access anyway, and it was significantly less occupied than the public area just over the wall. They had a relatively roomy area for themselves, the patch of green between their tents spacious enough for them to put up a gazebo and folding chairs. They might need a bit of a helping hand putting the tents together, however.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lando was first to finish, sitting cross-legged next to his bright orange tent with a can of Monster in his hand, admiring his handiwork.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You know what, I give up," Charles whined, throwing the tangle of ropes in his hands onto the ground. No matter what he did, his tent stubbornly refused to stand. "I shouldn't have bought this junk off Amazon. Anyone willing to share with me?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I can barely fit in mine as is," Alex said, unzipping his barely upright tent. He tried entering, having to resort to almost kneeling so his head would clear the top.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Lando?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sure, if you want to be kicked in the face </span>
  <em>
    <span>again.</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Yes, he moved around a lot when sleeping. No, he couldn't help it. Yes, every single one of his bandmates had fallen victim to him at some point when they had to share dingy lodgings on the road.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a slight pause before he asked, "George?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The answer was equally hesitant. "Sure." Lando turned to look at George, reading something odd in the way he said, "Mine's supposed to be a three-person tent, anyway." His tone was casual, </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>casual, bordering on feigned indifference. He might just be imagining it, however, so he took a sip of his drink and lay down on the grass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lando folded his arms under his head. The afternoon sky was uncharacteristically clear for Somerset during Glastonbury weekends, and the weather was predicted to stay dry and fairly sunny for the rest of the weekend, too. Definitely something to be thankful for. Mud baths could be fun, but they didn't want to have to deal with potential delays or even cancellations and having to haul around their equipment to shelter from pouring rain like they had to do at Rock am Ring last year. (Rock am Ring had been a blast, though. The organizers even let them have a go around the Nordschleife on a GTi. Lando had been fastest—spending his free time mucking about on iRacing had surely helped.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And they didn't have to smuggle him in one of their gear cases this time around, too. Perks of being the </span>
  <em>
    <span>second</span>
  </em>
  <span> name off the top in the lineup to play the Pyramid. The thought of playing one of the world's most iconic stages still made Lando dizzy with a buzz of excitement.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(It wasn't quite drawing the shortest straw—being the one with the slightest build, he had to be the one taking one for the team when the management mixed up their passes and registered only three band members the very first time they were invited to play at the Worthy Farm. Lando made sure to give his bandmates and managers hell for it for all the years that followed.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He drew his eyes close, sighing in contentment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Want to look around the Farm after we're settled in, get our bearings?" George asked when he was finished putting his rucksack in the tent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sounds good," Alex agreed. He reached for his pocket and pulled a timetable booklet. "Maybe check some sets out, too."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Then we can hit the hospitality for a few rounds after?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>We</span>
  </em>
  <span> can. Not you, though, Charles, you just did absolutely fuck all," Lando jabbed, grinning. He cracked open an eye. From the corner of his vision he could see Charles flip him the bird, a fond smile on his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span></span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>It was akin to culture shock, entering the hospitality area, especially in contrast with the public and the one reserved for crews. Food and drink stalls wherever the eyes could see, not a speck of dirt under their feet, and most notably, </span>
  <em>
    <span>toilets with actual running water.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They even have</span>
  <em>
    <span> hot showers</span>
  </em>
  <span>," Lando said in awe when he rejoined the group by the Butt's Bar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Charles whistled. "We </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> to exploit the hell out of that."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Truly the height of luxury," George said sagely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We're so lucky we have access," Alex said as he handed Lando his drink. "You know you're the only person I know who likes White Russian? And that's pretty much </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> you ever drink, too."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Coffee, milk, and booze, what's not to like? Don't knock it 'till you try it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Charles made a face. "I'll stick with beer, thanks."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lando raised his glass, and the others followed suit with their drinks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There would not be any performances on the main stages until tomorrow, but the festival and production crews as well as the media were already starting to work round the clock. Among the bustling activity Lando noticed many of the VIPs and their entourage seemed to have arrived as well, getting the party started. Lando might not recognize them specifically, but they were not too hard to spot: carefully styled hair, usually with bodyguards in tow, clad head to toe with clothing items more expensive than Lando's entire drum kit and machines. He made sure to stick close to his friends, lest he bump into some A-lister he should probably know. More out of concern of causing them offense than being wary of making a fool of himself, though.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lando wasn't quite aware of how the night went by. They walked around the interstage area, ordered one drink after another from the various bars scattered across the hospitality section, chatting away about everything and nothing in particular, and before he knew it, his head was floating and he was struggling to stand upright.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Okay, perhaps he overdid it. He definitely got carried away and had one too many. Free—</span>
  <em>
    <span>complimentary</span>
  </em>
  <span>—drinks or not, he should've known better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Lads," Lando mumbled, sinking into one of the many lawn chairs nearest him, head hung limply between his shoulders. "I think I'll have to call it the night."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Told you to slow down a bit," Alex sighed, his speech also starting to slur.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We really got to lose our broke-ass student mentality," Charles snickered, scrutinizing the bottom of his plastic cup like he found something so very interesting in it. "Free food and drinks and we all go ham."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"To be fair, festival prices are daylight robbery." George still looked quite unaffected. He turned to Lando. "You're still good to make it back?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Dunno." He got up a bit too quickly and tried to take a step forward, but had to slump back down when he felt his world starting to spin. "Nope."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn't remember much after, only that his stomach felt like lead and his head just as heavy, but he was walking, his entire weight being supported by—Charles? Had to be. Alex or George would have to hunch down so low it would probably be much easier for them to carry him instead. When they arrived at their camping place he somehow managed to crawl into his tent, the sickly sweet taste of some sort of sports drink being the last thing he could remember before sleep took him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span></span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Lando woke up with a pounding headache he had not felt in a good while. Drinking was not exactly anywhere near the top of his list of favorite things, but when the situation pretty much mandated it and so he did drink, he usually held his alcohol well. He really couldn't remember how many he'd had last night, however, so fair enough. Vodka had a tendency to result in nasty hangovers, and he was glad he wasn't feeling all that bad, considering. He was thankful of whomever it had been who had insisted on him drinking some Lucozade to replenish his electrolytes before he'd passed out, the half-empty bottle of unappetizing neon green liquid lying beside him just by his nose. Turn his head a bit, he'd nudge it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Rise and shine, sleepyhead!" Charles, that cruel, cruel bastard, ripped the zipper of his tent open without a trace of mercy, the rays of sun stabbing his eyelids with pins and needles. He threw his arm over his eyes, groaning at the stiffness of his neck from the lack of a proper mattress.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"C'mon, Lando, chop chop, we play in a couple of hours," Alex added.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Head hurts," he mumbled, still unmoving.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No shit, mate," Charles snickered. "Get up, I'm going to raid George's stash of Aspirin. Take some, hop in the shower and you'll be good as new." He pulled Lando not-so-gently into a sitting position.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"S'too far."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We'll carry you there if we must. C'mon, up you go."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The shower, Aspirin, and what felt like a gallon worth of water did him good indeed. He could still feel the last remnants of his hangover in how sensitive his eyes had become to light, but he'd survive a six-song secret set for BBC Introducing, surely. The journey there, however, was quite the walk for someone still not quite at his one-hundred percent. Lando couldn't imagine how he'd fare if they still had to do it like they did when they first played the stage several years ago, hauling all their equipment around on their own across the fields with makeshift trolleys and sheer willpower.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they arrived there was a good number of people waiting already—they were to be the first act playing at twelve o'clock, only listed as TBA. Rumors had been flying around on who it could possibly be, and well—they were in for a treat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lando was first to step on stage. Headache, what headache? It was little more than an afterthought when he climbed on top of the bass drum, waving one of his drumsticks around like a conductor's baton, the crowd growing louder and louder.  The almost timid greeting George said to the mic before he tested a few chords his guitar was responded by an exuberant cheer. He then turned towards Lando and gave him a nod.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lando grinned, hopping back down and settled into the stool.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span></span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>The thirty-minute time slot breezed by. Before he knew it, they were stood near the edge of the stage, bowing to the audience, George thanking them and reminding them to catch their set tomorrow despite its clasing with the first half of England's World Cup quarter finals game. Lando couldn't help but grin ear to ear, heading toward the backstage area with a spring on his steps after throwing his drumsticks to the crowd. Performing truly held such power.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do we have interviews after this?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, you're all free for the rest of the day," their tour manager said, to a chorus of cheers. "Tomorrow will be packed though, so you'll head straight back to the camp after the headliner is finished, understood?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They replied in nods, grunts of agreement, and Lando's </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Ma'am!"</span>
  </em>
  <span> and salute.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Alright, let's see," Alex said as he opened the timetable, almost having to squint to read the already battered pocket-sized booklet. "Any must-see sets? We can split up."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'll be staying at the Other Stage today. Anna Calvi at half three," George said, passing up on the timetable with a wave of a hand when Alex offered it to him. "Followed immediately by St. Vincent and then The National. Then we can all go to the Pyramid to see Gaga?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Gaga as our meeting point, then." Alex decided, looking around and being met with approval. "I'm going to go see Sudan Archives and Anderson .Paak at the Park Stage, then I'll tag along with you. Charles?" He handed him the booklet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The Kooks at half two and Sharon van Etten at four for me, both at the Pyramid, then Justice at the West Holts at half eight," Charles said after leafing through it. "I'll be a bit late for Gaga, it's quite a bit of a walk."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Aw, man, Justice and The National are clashing?" Lando said, lips pursed. "I'll have to go see my man Bryan, but I'll tag along to the West Holts, yeah? Promised to say hello to an old friend."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span></span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Truth be told, Lando didn't particularly care for the music. He had a lot of respect for the producer, though. And he'd promised he'd stop by, so there he was, backstage at Martin Garrix's set.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still it was a place he would much rather be at than the hospitality tent. He wouldn't want to return anytime soon, not after being reduced to a blubbering mess when </span>
  <em>
    <span>Phil Collins </span>
  </em>
  <span>approached </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>and praised him for his work earlier. How was one supposed to recover from that? Even after a fair share of award show encounters, he wasn't sure if he'd ever get used to being around circles of those he'd see through the television screen, those who once adorned the walls of his bedroom and the t-shirts he wore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Charles bailed on him and went to the Avalon instead, so Lando was left to his own devices, trying to look for someone that continued to elude him three songs in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He felt a firm tap on his shoulder. "There you are!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lando turned around to face the owner of the voice, Formula 1 driver Max Verstappen himself. "Hey, mate!" Lando went to shake hands but Max pulled him into a quick hug instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow he managed to squeeze Glastonbury into his busy season, which was quite a feat. The Austrian GP was scheduled for next week, if Lando recalled correctly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There would be times it would still feel difficult for Lando to be around anyone involved in motorsports. Having his dream perish before his eyes just after winning the WSK Euro Series still left him with a distant ache he couldn't quite put behind him fully, and especially not when the painful reminder of it would physically manifest from time to time. At the most inconvenient of times, too, more often than not.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lando was glad he managed to keep in touch with Max. They'd become fast friends competing against each other at karting. As their respective careers both bloomed, he supposed he would be better off remembering all the great times he'd had on track rather than regretting it being over.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lando had bragging rights for being one of the few people to have a one-hundred percent record competing against Max, too. Not too bad a badge of honor to have.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Staying for the weekend?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Unfortunately not. I have to be at the factory on Monday before flying to Austria. A bit of sim work."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lando nodded, finding himself disappointed. It's really been a while since they had time to properly catch up, what with their hopping on and off planes (or tour buses, in Lando's case). "You'll catch our set tomorrow, though?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wouldn't miss it for the world, mate."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span></span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Lando slept significantly better on the second night. Wise decision by their tour managers to haul them right back to their camps after seeing Lady Gaga's headline set.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had been nice to bump into and get a chance to catch up with some of their friends yesterday. They had enough invitations to watch sets together, tank up on booze and perhaps indulge in something stronger, but their set was scheduled for this evening and they had enough interview commitments to fill up the day, too. They could party all they liked after, and throughout Sunday if they so pleased, but now was time to get their game face on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lando and Charles just finished talking to NME. The four of them had DIY Magazine lined up after lunch. He had some free time now, while Charles had to hurry over to go live on ARTE and CANAL+. He stepped out of the NME tent, noting the intensity of the sun about to reach its zenith on the sky and the rustle of drying grass below feet, glad it wasn't the squelching of wellies instead. He put his sunglasses on, making a mental note to re-apply his sunscreen. Hitting the stage looking like overcooked lobster was among the last things he'd want.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Festivals were quite an operation. He looked around as he made it through the media pen, rows after rows of tents, people hurrying from set to set to document what was considered one of the world's greatest music festivals. It reminded him of the time his dad would take him to the paddock at Silverstone as a kid, how he'd dreamt he would one day, too, be one of the drivers to compete on track against the best of the best.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Playing the Pyramid wasn't too bad a career fallback, he supposed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Between the bustle of people he spotted Alex and George, and decided he would sneak up on them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn't quite reach between them to put his arms on each of their shoulders without going on tiptoes but he tried still. "Hello, there!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Look who's decided to join us!" the cheery voice of a woman piped up. She was holding a microphone with the BBC logo. A camera was pointed right at Lando.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wait—is this live?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"On BBC Two, yes," Alex turned to him, grinning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh. Hi, Mum, hi, Dad!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span></span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>And so it would come back at the least convenient of times indeed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Two nights of sleep on a flimsy air mattress didn't help his cause too much. Lando had slept on worse surfaces on tour and managed just fine so far, but it was as if his body had a consciousness of its own sometimes, with its sole purpose being to frustrate him. The DIY Magazine interview had been engaging so far. Interesting questions were being asked, for once, and he was very much enjoying it, but the stab of pain on his back stubbornly refused to subside. He squirmed on the sofa, putting pressure with his palm where the almost decade-old scar was, the epicenter of the blooming, white-hot ache.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sorry to interrupt, but I have to excuse myself," he spoke up after a while when the edges of his vision started to blur. "I think the burger I ate was a bit off," he said, sheepish, trying all his might not to wince.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The interviewer laughed it off and they exchanged pleasantries, promising they would catch up some other time, but when he turned to look at Alex, George, and Charles, he knew they had definitely caught on, their worried looks told him as much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span></span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>He barely made it to the first aid tent. The paramedic caught him just in time before the pain overwhelmed him, his ears ringing, his vision exploding in bursts of stars. Lying down helped. The Ibuprofen and whatever else the doc gave him did as well, but he knew if it persisted beyond this he had to get a shot. That meant a visit to the local hospital, which he would rather not have to do. He fancied his chances weren't too bleak, however. He'd had it worse. And he had a set to play—possibly a career-defining one, too. What little sense of self-preservation he might have harbored had been chucked out the window a long time ago—he was going to get on that stage no matter what.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not ten minutes after Lando was finished being tended to he felt a firm poke on his forearm. He cracked his eyes open to see his bandmates by the cot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"See? Still alive."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You alright, mate?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lando sighed. He pushed himself up to a sitting position. "I'll survive."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You sure?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Positive."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't force yourself, okay?" For a second Alex's casual façade faded, concern slipping into his features. "It might do even more damage."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Every one of them knew he hated being mothered on, or worse, pitied at, when his back problems did flare up, but at the moment he'd let it slide. "I know. I'll take care. You know we can't—it's </span>
  <em>
    <span>the Pyramid, </span>
  </em>
  <span>lads."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not at the cost of your health, though."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know, George. The doc there told me it's no big deal. Now move along, you," he said, making gestures to shoo them away before lying back down. "I'm taking a nap. Wake me up in a couple of hours or so and I'll be grand. See you at the tent."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lando knew to be firm when he needed to, and his friends knew to not push it and trust his calls. He lay back down as they filed out of the aid station, sighing. He wished he could will himself to sleep, but his back refused to be ignored. He took deep breaths, trying to focus and vacate his thoughts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slow as it was, sleep did end up claiming him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span></span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He heard that one before. It felt like a déjà vu, except of course he actually was woken up from his sleep by the same exact words yesterday. No rays of sunlight to stab at his eyes this time, at least, and the nudge on his shoulders was surprisingly gentle. Gingerly, he opened his eyes, mumbling something incoherent as he did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Charles gave him a small smile. “How are you, mate?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lando paused to consider. There still was a trace of soreness in his spine, but it didn’t bother him much more than his current urge to visit the loos. That was an encouraging sign.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Been better. Got a set to play.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span></span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>He refrained from climbing on his bass drum, this time, not trusting his still worn body to keep balance. Wouldn’t it make for quite a headline if he had face planted right then. Still, he’d much rather read glittering reviews of their performance from Pitchfork and some and such—not that he actually read those, but still.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lando puffed out a breath as he put his in-ear monitor on. He adjusted his stool a fraction, tested the pedals of his hi-hat and kick drum, picked up a couple of sticks from the compartment. The intro music was arpeggiated synth over an atmospheric distorted guitar melody. It was coming to an end. George fiddled with the tone control of his Telecaster one last time. Lando twirled the drumstick on his left hand, stopping just before the closing seconds of the intro.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked at the names inked on the inner side of his left-hand fingers, the lines still crisp and fresh. Each member of his family. They were all at home, watching him. Watching Hairpin Turns show the world what they were capable of.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Most of the time, his smiles were goofy, carefree. The one he had on his lips at the moment was wistful, laden with melancholy. If only they could be here. He sighed before turning to look at the side of the stage, finding Max standing beside their manager, giving Lando two thumbs up. He grinned and gave one back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George stepped in front of the mic and raised his hand, a signal for the band to be ready. Lando could feel the rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins. It wasn’t quite waiting for the five green lights to flicker out at the start of a race, but when George kicked off the set with the opening acapella notes of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Winter's Wake</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it felt just as exhilarating.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not too bad a career fallback, indeed.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There is a not so distinct possibility that I have grown attached to this AU and Hairpin Turns. I felt the overwhelming urge to flesh out Alex and Lando and explore their dynamics as a group, so here's a bit more from the 'verse.</p>
<p>The news article format is inspired by the ever brilliant <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter">singlemalter</a>. I hope the pretentiousness cranked to maximum typical of music reviews came through. I tried my best to channel Tony Fantano, I truly did...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Alex</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex observed the heavens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Worthy Farm was essentially in the middle of nowhere, though for a weekend at the end of June it would of course explode to life, a gathering of two-hundred thousand odd people. The lack of noise discipline notwithstanding, lying on that minuscule patch of grass between the camps they set up—well, the three of them set up—provided him with some sense of peace nonetheless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not a wisp of cloud in the sky exploding with perhaps the most amount of stars he'd ever seen in his life so far. Away from the light and air pollution he was all too used to, it was a rare sight indeed. It might simply be the sloshing of alcohol in his system playing tricks to his vision, but he thought he could see the faint trail of the Milky Way, too, arching from the horizon up beyond his line of sight. In the back of his mind, the looming feeling of insignificance was threatening to haunt him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he could go full swing on his existential crisis, however, he heard someone flop on one of the camping chairs next to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alexander." In his peripheral vision, he saw Charles waving a bottle of beer. "Nightcap?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex turned to look, raising a brow when he saw the blue and white of the label. "They have Augustiner here?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"At the bars? No idea. Scared them up from a group of Germans." Charles pointed beyond the wall. "Well—traded them for selfies, actually. They gave me half their crate," he added almost sheepishly, gesturing to the general direction of his tent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wow, fame is getting into you," Alex chuckled. "I'm good, though. Wouldn't want to end up like Lando."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wise. Is he settled?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex nodded. Charles popped one of the bottles open with his lighter and took a swig. He fished out his pack of cigarettes from his jacket, took the last remaining ones and crushed the carton between his hands before tossing it to the bin they set up against one of the poles of the gazebo. It bounced on the side and went in. "Mind if I smoke?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex fought the urge to roll his eyes, but closed them instead and scoffed. Since when did Charles start asking? He could hear the flick of the lighter and the smell of tobacco fill the air. "Didn't you say you wanted to quit?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I did," Charles said, his tone non-committal. "I've been meaning to—I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> trying."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Trying. </span>
  </em>
  <span>As if I didn't just see you finish an entire pack today alone."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a pause the length of a couple of heartbeats before Charles conceded, "Guess I'm doing a piss-poor job, then."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A comfortable silence settled upon them—relative silence, at least. It was only half past one or so, early for festival standards. Had Lando not go on the absolute bender as fast as he did, they would probably still be wandering about the Farm. Some DJ sets only just started, murmurs of the bass sending soft vibrations through the earth underneath Alex's back. Beyond the wall separating the crew camping and the public area, some people were still setting up camp, many more talking and laughing and singing on top of their lungs, pre-partying for the weekend as they just did. Even though he packed earplugs with him, Alex wondered if he could get any sleep at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushed himself up to sit cross-legged and turned to face Charles. "On second thought, maybe I'll have it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles opened the other bottle he had with him and handed it to Alex without a word. He was mildly surprised when the glass was cool to the touch. Not quite ice cold, but pleasant enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why didn't we play a show in Munich on the last tour, again?" Alex remarked after taking a few sips, eyes narrowed to try reading the label on the bottle in the darkness. "Could really use more of this stuff."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles tapped the edge of his cigarette, snickering. "Are we sure we aren't banned from the brewery, though?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Lando, probably. Don't drag me and George into it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> idea."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fair enough."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They probably weren't </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> banned. Though it made them all avoid drinking beer for the next few weeks, so vile the memory of its taste had been, sneaking a handful of hops from the brewery and staging a hops eating contest held no candle to some of the stunts they pulled at school and uni. In hindsight, it had been beyond ill-thought, risking their future for petty fun and cheap thrills.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could still remember the acid taste of fear as they made a run from one of the street racing meets they used to participate in from time to time, flashing blue lights and sirens too close behind them for comfort. Whatever hocus-pocus Benji did on the shitbox Golf he, Lando, and George bought for a whopping fifteen hundred quid, it was a stellar job. It had seen better days, but it had been </span>
  <em>
    <span>fast.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Enough for Lando to make a getaway, at least. They did mellow out quickly when they started seriously devoting their time to music, however.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there they were now. Not only did they survive the cut-throat music industry, they seemed to be succeeding. He was aware how fine the margins were, how much of their career rode on luck as much as their hard work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took a big gulp from his bottle. The faint warmth and smokiness it left behind reminded him of the taste of cloves and the crisp autumn air of Munich when they'd visited then. Of being backstage somewhere after a show. Alex glanced over to Charles before lying back down. Between drags of his cigarette and sips of his beer, he would absently nib on his thumb. As he did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There had absolutely been preconceived notions from his part when Alex started getting to know Charles. That perhaps the seemingly reserved, slightly enigmatic Charles Leclerc he shared a couple of classes with wouldn't quite fit in with the rest of them no matter how skilled, how talented he was. That perhaps their chance meeting at the St. Pancras station that night wasn't quite the fateful one Alex sometimes thought it to be, that it was colored with his tendency of romanticizing his life. That perhaps his blurting out, </span>
  <em>
    <span>"You should join our band!</span>
  </em>
  <span>" right after having introduced himself to this classmate of his who had just finished playing a piece he'd written himself with such captivating passion on the public piano had been born of little else but spontaneity, of little second thought. That Charles agreeing to a jam had been but empty words, as one would say to an estranged former-friend suggesting on catching up. They had practically been strangers then, only having worked on a case study together previously. If he'd bailed, Alex would've understood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then Charles had turned up at his parents' house, where Hairpin Turns as the world would know them would start their journey. And so the reservations each of them had held against each other would erode away with every jamming and writing sessions, drunken shenanigans, and late nights spent at libraries studying for exams and finishing essays at the very last minute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest was, as the saying went, history.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ground control to Alex Albon?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snapped out of his reverie. George had joined them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Lost in thought?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sat up, "I guess so. Reminiscing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He's getting soft," Charles drawled. "Quarter life crisis would do that to you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex simply raised his bottle at them and took another long swig, feeling the gas from the carbonated beverage beginning to rise up from his belly. He barely held back a burp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Guess I am. It's just—bloody hell. We went from mucking about at Mum's garage and now </span>
  <em>
    <span>we're here.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Thought we'd all be going back to our day jobs after </span>
  <em>
    <span>Crab Nebula </span>
  </em>
  <span>got out."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Can't quite believe it either," George said, sighing as he sunk into the camping chair opposite Charles, though Alex could hear the smile on George's tone. "Apparently we are quite decent at this noise-making business?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"C'mon, don't sell ourselves short!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles hummed, nodding in agreement. "Still. Lucky bastards, aren't we."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Indeed they were. Success still felt foreign to Alex—if someone told him back then that they would be where they were now, he'd laugh them out of the room. He wasn't sure he would ever quite get used to all </span>
  <em>
    <span>this.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Regardless of where their career would go, what still lay ahead of them, he knew what they had now was something to be treasured, something to be thankful for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We are. Could do without our stuff being stolen right before our debut tour, though," George said, crossing his arms, sinking deeper into his seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Now you're just being ungrateful," Alex snickered, knowing well George wasn't being serious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I just miss my first Tele. We've been through a lot together, you know."</span>
</p><p>  <em>
    <span>"We?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"It was a terrible replica and it sounded horrific, George," Charles said as he stubbed his cigarette out on his now-empty bottle, almost a deadpan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George gasped, mocking offense. "I had to save up for a year to get her! And she had </span>
  <em>
    <span>character.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I just know we wouldn't have to go through every guitar at the studio to record </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mercurochrome </span>
  </em>
  <span>if I still had her."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We are </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>producing our own record again," Alex said, sighing, almost serious. "It was a miracle we even finished it at all with all your fussiness."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Says the one whose rig is more complicated than the rest of us combined." George grinned. "How many fuzz pedals and amps do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> need, hm?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, it's my—</span>
  <em>
    <span>our </span>
  </em>
  <span>signature now!" Alex shook his head. "You know what. Next record, we'll have a ten-minute song with a killer distorted bass solo and there's nothing any of you can do about it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George chuckled. "Well, get writing then!" He rose from his seat, tapping the bottle on the table and gave Charles a questioning look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pointed at their tent. "Bring me another one too. Alexander?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shook his head, raising his almost-empty bottle and drained it. When he tried getting up, he could feel his head blissfully swimming. "M'good. Going to sleep soon." He waved dismissively when George was making a move towards him when he almost stumbled. George shrugged and went to get the drinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he turned to head for his tent, Alex's mind went back to his earlier thoughts. He wasn't sure if it would all be too sentimental to express aloud. He truly was getting soft. Stopping in his tracks, he said, "You know—I'm glad my train got horribly delayed that night. Probably wouldn't have caught you playing the piano if it had been on time." He smiled. It must've looked goofy and lopsided. "And—well, here we are now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a heartbeat of pause before Charles answered, "Luckily the Eurostar was late, too. Had to do something to pass the time."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn't be certain, but Alex sensed something off in Charles' tone. He was making an attempt at nonchalance and made it three-quarters of the way there. Even in the low lighting and with the alcohol in his system Alex could see his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Was that a flash of anger he just saw, or was it pain? Alex chose not to pursue it. Instead, "Good night."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles mumbled the same back to him with a wave of hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The National were opening their set with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Rylan. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Was that Gail Ann Dorsey singing the backing vocals? It had to be her. He'd seen David Bowie's Glastonbury 2000 headline set too many times, the VCR still lying around somewhere at his parents'.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two decades on. In twenty-four hours, he'd be on that very same stage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembered Bowie's set at Montreux Jazz Festival too. Dorsey's smooth command of the bass, groove and precision going hand in hand. That performance made Alex sure he wanted to stick to playing the bass and keep improving on his craft. It taught him that simplicity could very much go a long way. The National's music was a prime example of this, too. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bloodbuzz Ohio</span>
  </em>
  <span> came on next. The song's bassline was beautifully effective, driving the song forward with just a few notes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flashy licks or understated lines, Alex's playing had to serve their music. The rhythm section was the heartbeat of a music group, and so he and Lando would perform their duty with utmost discipline and care. It helped that they were both jazz-trained, and that Lando had a natural, immaculate grasp for rhythm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still Alex enjoyed messing around with effects and distortions. A lot. He couldn't help it, having grown  up listening to the likes of Genesis, The Who, King Crimson, and more recently, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Muse. It evolved to become an integral part of Hairpin Turns' sound. He'd joked about it being an outlet for his not being anywhere as cool as his idols Flea and John Entwistle and Chris Wolstenholme, that making a wall of sound with multiple layers of effects and amplifiers and playing intricate lines had been his way of making up for it. And perhaps there was some truth in it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though their music did allow for glimpses of flair and pomp, Alex was very much content with being the backbone, keeping time. The ten-minute monstrosity would have to wait. Still he wished he'd written </span>
  <em>
    <span>Around the World</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hysteria.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt a tap on his shoulder. "Made it!" Lando exhaled heavily, wheezing. "What did I miss?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex leaned in so Lando could hear him better. "Not much, they just started. Where's Charles?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He's seeing Justice. He'll meet us at the Pyramid for Gaga."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah, right."</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>There was a statistical breakdown for almost everything. The mundane, the slice of life, say, how many toothbrushes one would go through in their lifetime, to the ones that should warrant alarm like the constant rise of the Earth's temperature. He wasn't quite sure why, of all places, Alex's mind wandered into numbers and statistics—it was one of his least favorite classes that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>somehow</span>
  </em>
  <span> aced, but he sure was wondering exactly how many times he'd been asked how he felt about playing the Pyramid this weekend alone. He sipped at his too-strong tea before setting down the thermos and taking a bite of his egg muffin, blinking away the last remainder of sleep from his system.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had rounds of interviews before they were to take the stage later that evening. Several flavors of "We are so excited!" were at the ready, and with each iteration something heavy as lead weighed down his stomach more and more. He couldn't quite put a finger to it. Something along the lines of being anxious, though not the kind that would rob air out of his lungs and make him retreat into himself. As surreal as it all felt, being here, being interviewed live on BBC Two, he didn't think it made him </span>
  <em>
    <span>nervous</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He was itching to get up there and perform, if anything. Still, having to feign excitement all the time felt exhausting. Which was why Alex let George lead the conversation, nodding along to his answers, adding as needed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was glad when the interviewer moved on to ask questions about music. Now this he could talk about for hours on end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sold-out world tour, Mercury Prize and BRITs nominations, and now The Pyramid. And you have a new single out a few days ago, too." She glanced at her cue card. "I still get the title mixed up—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cookie Cutter Comedy Club.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It's a tongue-twister!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cookie Cutter Comedy Club,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" George repeated. All three of them did several times, stumbling on the syllables a few times before breaking into laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"All right, all right," the interviewer continued. "Talk us through it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It started with a bass line I wrote. I shared it with the others and they liked it, so we worked on it further and recorded a demo just as we finished recording </span>
  <em>
    <span>Butterfly Effect</span>
  </em>
  <span>," Alex answered, almost too eager. "But in the end we felt that it didn't quite fit in the album, so we put it on hold. We like the song a lot, though, so we revisited it after we finished touring."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George nodded. "Recorded and mastered in like, what, two days? And we were ready to release it right then. Not even as a single, we just want to put it out there, you know? But the label told us to put it on hold—until now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And are we glad we finally get to hear it! It's fantastic!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They chorused their thank yous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alex, I heard you built a synth from scratch for this song. That's impressive!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex cleared his throat. "I did! Not exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>for</span>
  </em>
  <span> this song, though, we ended up using it on a couple more songs on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Butterfly Effect</span>
  </em>
  <span>, too. It is very prominent in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cookie Cutter </span>
  </em>
  <span>because we used it for the main riff. George wrote the riff for the guitar, but when we were recording, we simply couldn't get the tone we wanted—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I think I ran it through every effect pedal and MIDI processor we had," George added, cutting in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"—So we then tried playing the riff on almost every synthesizer lying around in the studio, including the one I finished building just before Christmas. And well, we all liked how it sounded!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Building synths. Sounds like a lot of fun."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, I really enjoyed it. I've tinkered with effects before, but I've never undertaken any project of this scale before. Thankfully you can learn pretty much anything from YouTube nowadays. The synth is based on the Moog circuitry, there are plenty of resources on that. I'm sure I voided the warranty of my keyboard by hooking them up together, though."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure glad you didn't electrocute yourself," George added, beaming as he gave Alex a couple of firm slaps on the shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course!" He punched him lightly on the upper arm. "What would you do without me, mate?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lando barged in on them right then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The day went on mostly as planned. Except for Lando's visit to the aid station, of course. They knew of his condition, though. The accident that caused it, his being absent for almost a month from school back then (even if he had been absent relatively often when competing abroad). Still he couldn't help but worry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three of them headed to the backstage holding area after the DIY interview to prepare for the show. Crews from different artists were busy either packing or setting up, cases after cases with band logos emblazoned on them being pushed around. The artists' tent was decorated in rainbow garbs, honeycomb garlands, and streamers, and every face of the walls were painted floor to ceiling with graffiti just as rich in colors. It was, well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>something, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Alex supposed. The couch he was lying on had prints so garish it was an eyesore even in his peripheral vision. Certainly consistent with the aesthetics of the festivals, but it wasn't quite optimal a place to get himself tuned for his upcoming performance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From where he was, the music from the stage was little more than background noise, except for the occasional bass drops that would send vibrations through the makeshift room. His in-ear monitors helped quite a lot to tune the noise out. This would have to make do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's been a while since he meditated, and he was out of practice. He thought he would ease into it like one would ride a bicycle after a long time, but it was proving to be harder than he expected. When he closed his eyes and started drawing slow, controlled breaths, it was as if he could suddenly hear every synapse firing in his brain. Loud, everything was simply too overwhelmingly loud and oppressive.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Breathe in deep. Hold it. One, two, three, four, five. Breathe out. Slowly.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Gradually he managed to tune the noises completely out. For a moment it felt like floating in a vast ocean of ether. The nervousness, the anxieties he locked in deep in the pits of his denial crept in. He couldn't let it overwhelm him, take its reins over him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Feel your body. Be in the moment. Let your feelings flow past you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>When he opened his eyes again, he assessed himself. He felt much more calm. Focused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex unfolded his hands from his chest. His gaze swept over the bracelets on each of his wrists as he ran his fingers through them. On one, the ones of his faith, his heritage, each color breathed in with its own words of power, each one carrying a different meaning. On the other, just as colorful, the ones from Glastonbury Festival. General admission, VIP access, artist's pass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex smiled to himself, and hoisted himself up from the couch, the last traces of nerves dissolving away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just a few more hours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>He called his family at home. Said hello to all of them, including their army of pets. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't choked up, their well-wishes and outpouring of love too overwhelming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not too long after came another FaceTime call. He tapped the green button. Lily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You know, I tried logging in to the iPlayer with your account? I almost panicked because it didn't work and your set is only an hour away! Then I realized I forgot to turn VPN on," she sighed. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>are supposed to be the technologically challenged one!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I am not technologically challenged!" Alex protested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You literally had to call Lando to install Windows. Do you even know how anything other than your bass rig works?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, she had a point. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>And </span>
  </em>
  <span>modular synths, come on, give me some credit."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay, I'll give you that." Even through the relatively small phone screen her fond exasperation bled through. She looked away from the webcam, probably switching windows to check the browser. "All good now, the livestream seems to be working. Can't wait for you not to be on camera at all."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah, the woes of bass players. He'd never minded too much, not being front and center, he preferred it, even. Let his music speak for itself. But for once he'd very much like to be on camera, so they would somehow still be connected through the screen. Through his music. He couldn't help the tug of lips and the ache of longing spreading in his chest. "Wish you were here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment she didn't answer. Lily turned her face away, squeezing her eyes shut, her smile wavering. Was she blinking tears away? A little hard to tell through the dodgy signal. It was a monumental point of his career, indeed, but Lily too was chasing her own dream. In less than twenty-four hours she would be challenging for her second LPGA major title. As much as they'd love to share all these moments together, it could not always work out. Bouquets of flowers and FaceTime calls had to suffice for the time being.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wish I were there, too. For your headline set in a couple of years, surely."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, you're making me nervous," Alex laughed. He could hear the wavering in his own voice, too. "Oh—Lil? I might have </span>
  <em>
    <span>accidentally </span>
  </em>
  <span>packed your Polaroid with me and raided your film stash."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alex!" Her eyebrows furrowed but her smile stayed. "The special edition films too?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gasped, mock-offended. "I wouldn't dare, what do you take me for? The standard ones only."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Attaboy," she teased, her tone saccharine sweet, yet it made his stomach do somersaults all the same. She knew him too well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I love you, Lil," he blurted out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her laugh was more beautiful than anything melody he would ever compose. "I love you too, Alex. Go out there and kick some ass."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Will do."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You should go into the crowd or something. Surely the TV directors would love that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is that a challenge?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>"Lando!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to face Alex and was promptly temporarily blinded by the camera flash. "Hey, I wasn't ready!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's the idea—candid portraits!" he declared with glee, plucking the Polaroid photo from the camera and putting it facedown on the gear case Lando was perched at. "Ten minutes until it finishes developing, no peeking!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He went around the backstage area, snapping unsuspecting bandmates and crews away, changing film cassettes whenever he ran out. George, still in deep conversation with his musical hero—he'd hated to interrupt them, but he knew George would cherish the memento. Another one of Lando—now sitting cross-legged and making a goofy face—and Charles—sitting with one leg drawn to his chest atop another gear case beside Lando, effortlessly photogenic as always. Some more snaps of their FOH engineer, stage manager, and tour photographer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's done," Alex told his two bandmates when he came back to peek at the photo, examining the result. Not too bad considering his first attempts at analog photography turned out to all be out of focus and terribly lit. He was no Lily, but she had taught him well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something caught Alex's eye. He glanced at Charles and then back to the photo again. He was quite sure the t-shirt with an upside-down black cat printed on it Charles was wearing was George's—he'd bought it when they saw Foals live at the 9:30 Club in D.C. a couple of years ago. He remembered George losing his shirt and a shoe in the mosh pit. They'd only found the shoe, so he'd rushed over to the merch table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ten minutes to go," their tour manager announced, breaking his train of thoughts. "Equipment check complete. Here we go."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright, last one. Gather up, lads, it's picture day!" Alex handed her the camera. "Just aim and press the red button."</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The technician handed him his five-string American Deluxe. The way the strap pressed against his shoulder, the feel of the strings against the pads of his fingers, the way his in-ear monitor muffled the cheers of the crowd—it all felt simultaneously familiar and foreign.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex looked over to each one of his bandmates—his friends. Lando, twirling a drumstick. George, triple-checking his guitar and pedal settings. Charles, adjusting the strap of the Jazzmaster slung across his back. George, raising his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'd been on many stages before. None quite like this one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>
    <span>[ID: Instagram Story posted by </span>
  </em>
  <span>albon_pets.</span>
  <em>
    <span> A white and gray-colored cat is curled up in front of a television screen showing the BBC Two Glastonbury Festival broadcast. The cat is wearing a black t-shirt with Hairpin Turns' design. Shown on the screen is a wide shot of the Pyramid Stage, people packed full in front of it, waiting for the set to start. The image is captioned: "We can't wait to see our biggest brother Alex on stage!🎸🎶 Love Horsey x 🐎"]</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>True story: my friend lost his shirt in a mosh pit. Man, do I miss live music.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Charles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Apologies for the late update!</p><p>To make up for it: Since we unfortunately can't actually listen to Hairpin Turns' music, <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eHwcX1u1QXa6vwfyoEaKL">here's a playlist of songs I imagined would represent their vibes/a playlist of music they would be inspired by.</a> Their music doesn't necessarily have to sound like this, however, it's all about the vibes. Each five songs correspond to the songs in the setlist on the first chapter, so <i>To the Blade</i> until <i>Greatness or Death</i> would correspond to how <i>Winter's Wake,</i> <i>Doomsday</i> to <i>Agnes</i> would be <i>Zero Hour</i>, et cetera, and the songs after <i>Blackstar</i> are some more songs from artists namechecked throughout the 'fic.</p><p>Hope you enjoy it (and the chapter), and feel free to judge my taste in music...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was dark, Charles was still slightly tipsy, and his jaw was still sore from Lando accidentally elbowing him when they hauled him to bed after his bender. Almost tripping on someone's stray sleeping bag and falling headfirst into their tent just the second he failed to pay attention to the path before him as he made his way back to the camp was almost to be expected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shit—I'm sorry!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tent's owner and their two friends yelped, but they caught him on time before he could do further damage to his face and dignity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you okay?" Their voice carried a strong accent. South German or Austrian, if he had to guess. It reminded him of the accent of their boss at the recording company.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah," Charles breathed out, righting himself. He shoved his hand into the pockets of his jacket, pulling it closer to him. "Sorry about that," he grimaced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hold on a moment," one of the other two turned to him, frowning. "You're Charles from Hairpin Turns!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A statement, not a question. "That's me." He extended his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two critically acclaimed, commercially successful albums, sold-out shows worldwide, second from top on the Pyramid Stage billing. Getting recognized still felt weird to him. It shouldn't have been too much of a surprise, considering where they were, they were always bound to run into some fans. Still he had to try plastering a smile that he hoped would pass as sincere, wondering how easy it always seemed for his bandmates to handle this aspect of their career.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'd gotten better, he'd say, especially compared to their early days. How he'd try all his might to skip as many media duties as he could, how he'd almost never stayed to greet the fans after their shows. He liked to think it had neither stemmed out of arrogance nor shyness, but to this date, he still couldn't quite peg where it came from. There was something about the relationship between the adoring and the adored that he'd never be fully comfortable with. Ultimately his passion lay in making music, performing music. Fame was simply a fortunate, or rather, unfortunate side effect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And fans would also thank them for their music, tell them how much it meant to them. How some of the passages Charles had written had helped them through their darkest days. He struggled with such statements the most. Charles would smile and thank them back, say he was glad their music had that effect on them. But to this date he wasn't quite sure what to feel about that. Touched? Had he given too much of himself away in his words?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How did the saying go again? Fake it 'til you make it. And so Charles faked it, years after years. Anchored himself to his friends, trying to take cues from their seemingly effortless charm and friendliness. Even from his friends-slash-colleagues he was still keeping too many to himself, shouldn't be too much of a surprise that he settled for play-acting in the limelight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He continued wondering what kind of persona he managed to build over the years. If he liked the person he was pretending to be. At the very least, he could give his best shot at being kind. If not kind, then </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice,</span>
  </em>
  <span> at the very least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What are you doing here? You're going to play on Saturday, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles chuckled, willing himself to be at ease. "We're staying the weekend." Then grinned, conspiratory, looking around for effect. "And we'll be playing the secret set for BBC Introducing tomorrow."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No way!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Make sure to come see us, okay?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"For sure!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They asked for selfies. Charles ran his hand through his hair, trying to tame the mess. Made it worse. He found himself not caring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'd given each of them a quick hug and wished them goodnight when half a crate of Bavarian beer was pressed against his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wait—I can't accept this, how would you go about the rest of your weekend?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't worry! Our friends staying at the caravan site still have enough," one of them said, grinning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles shrugged, not finding it in him to resist. Augustiner. He almost snickered at the memory of the last time he visited Munich. "Thank you—</span>
  <em>
    <span>vielen Dank</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And, uh—</span>
  <em>
    <span>gute Nacht?"</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They laughed, chorusing their goodnights and goodbyes back at him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Mach's gut, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Charles!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>
    <span>You know—I'm glad my train got horribly delayed that night. Probably wouldn't have caught you playing the piano if it had been on time.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles watched Alex disappear into his tent. Something acidic bit at the edges of his tongue, begging to be washed down with more beer. He fidgeted at the remaining cigarette he had, twirling it between his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles hated himself slightly for the way Alex's words echoed in his mind. How instead of whatever it was he was supposed to feel, resentment was the first thing gnawing at his mind. It must've taken quite a bit for Alex to express something so heartfelt, so sentimental—or perhaps it simply had been the booze doing the talking, but either way, he knew his friend had been sincere. Of how thankful he was that a random chance event tipped the domino over, and now there they were, chasing their dream together. Living their dream together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex couldn't have known that the memory of that night at St. Pancras was attached to something else, something painful. Something Charles was yet to come into terms to, and probably never truly would.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He heard a popping sound and felt a tap on his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thanks," he muttered as he accepted the bottle, an absent smile tugging at his lips. He waited for George to open the other bottle with the lighter he left on the table. He reached over and bumped the bottles together, eyes fixed on George's. "Cheers." He didn't wait for him to reply to take a generous swig.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Cheers," George echoed, a question mark painted across his expression. "You alright?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had he become so easy to read?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles set the bottle down on the table and brought his thumb to his lips. Quieted. Stared into the distance. He took another sip from his bottle, torn between baring himself before George again or letting the matter be. George didn't press on, simply waited. And somehow Charles felt pressured still. He tapped his last remaining cigarette against the table, bringing it to his lips. Charles felt a pang of fondness when George reached for the Bic on the table and leaned in to light the cigarette for him, but tried not to think too much about how easy, how routine the gesture appeared. He muttered his thanks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah," he lied, knowing George didn't believe him for a second. He offered the cigarette to George, mildly surprised to see him accepting. Chuckling when George coughed softly at the first drag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shit, I'm a bad influence, no?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George waved him off as he handed it back, shrugging, the smile on his face easy and charming. "I've had worse."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence that followed was almost comfortable. They passed the cigarette back and forth. Charles stubbed it out when they were finished, tossing it into his bottle. "Time to call it the night?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George nodded. There was something in his thin smile Charles couldn't quite read. He opted to collect the bottles and throw it away instead of thinking too much about it for the time being.</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>George flicked the LED camping light off. "Good night."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the faint light of his phone screen, he watched with a raised eyebrow how George scrambled to cocoon himself with the sleeping bag, pulling the zipper hastily and turning to face away from him, the thin air mattress shifting beneath them. Retreating into a bubble, shielding himself from… </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>, exactly, he wondered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The feeling of being an intruder grew stronger. Well, he supposed he indeed was intruding. Not entirely his blame to carry, the tent he'd brought was junk and it was now in the garbage where it belonged. All their years of touring, he knew how much George valued his personal space, requesting his own room whenever possible. It wasn't supposed to get this awkward, simply sharing a tent, but indeed the context had changed between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not even an arm's length of space stretched between them. Vast and unbridgeable, suffocatingly nigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good night," he replied, voice but a whisper. Charles wondered if George could hear the wavering in it. He set his alarm to eight and hoped sleep would come soon enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Charles was shocked back into consciousness by the stab of a cramp on his calf. It took a lot for him not to yell from the searing pain, remembering he wasn't alone in the tent, breathing through gritted teeth. Not exactly the best of ways to start the day. It passed after a while, but he could already feel his mood darkening. He glanced at his phone. Zero-seven-forty. He deactivated his alarm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next to him, George was still asleep. Peaceful, serene, eyelids fluttering softly. Dreaming, perhaps. Charles freed himself from his sleeping bag slowly, trying not to disturb him. They were both light sleepers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he went back from showering and picking up breakfast for everyone he spotted Alex sitting on one of the camping chairs, glaring into a bottle of acid bright-colored drink. Nursing away the last signs of a hangover, then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alexander," Charles declared his arrival. Alex looked up. When he saw him bringing food, he beamed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My knight in shining armor!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles almost rolled his eyes, pushed his slipping glasses back to position instead. "What do you want? I've got egg and cress, ham and cheese, and BLT." He set the tote bag on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex grabbed one of the paper bags at random and immediately started eating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles watched Alex as he sipped his coffee—café au lait, allegedly, though it barely tasted like anything other than burnt beans and powdered creamer. Finding himself smiling at the focus Alex dedicated to his sandwich and his coffee—a drop of oat milk, no sugar, color and alertness returning to his face. Charles tucked into his own sandwich.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You feeling better, Charles?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stopped eating, brows knotted. "What?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You seemed a bit out of it last night."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seriously, had he become so easy to read?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah," Charles shrugged, looking away as he set his food on the table. Then he sighed, turning to look at Alex. "I—I wasn't being fair to you last night."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Care to elaborate?" Charles could hear the purposeful, deliberate slowing of Alex's words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"About St. Pancras."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex quieted, setting down his cup on the table. "What about it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles hesitated, taking a big gulp of his coffee to steel himself, flinching and cursing as it burned the roof of his mouth. "I had to travel back home that night. No more flights from London to Nice until the afternoon the next day. So I decided to take the Eurostar to Paris and see my options from there."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex waited, sipping at his coffee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Papa passed away the next day. I made it home but just missed him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence stretched between them. There was a fluctuating mix of emotions on Alex's face—shock, alarm. Sadness? Then, "I'm sorry, Charles," Alex whispered. "I shouldn't have brought it up."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, no. It's not your fault, you couldn't have known."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Still, I—" Alex stopped mid-sentence before Charles could cut in to insist. "Thank you for telling me." The smile Alex gave him was wistful, carrying a hint of sadness. On anyone else it could've been misinterpreted as pity, but Alex's was laced with affection. Camaraderie. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you for trusting me.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Charles looked away, hoping his glasses masked the glint of tears beginning to form in his eyes. "Anyway—I'm glad it worked out for all of us, though, right? At least something good came about from that night."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm glad you're with us."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, here we are."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Here we are." Alex glanced at his phone, frowning. "Is Lando awake yet?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The tent was well packed, and as the news spread that Hairpin Turns were to play, people flocked in en masse. Charles spotted the group of Germans he met last night at the front row, waving at him eagerly. He couldn't help but smile, making a mental note to throw them some of his guitar picks after the set.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a nice warmup, playing the BBC Introducing secret set. The crowd welcomed them warmly, opened the pit for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kingpin, </span>
  </em>
  <span>sang every word of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Aphantasia </span>
  </em>
  <span>back at them. Even when he had a hand at writing the song, Charles would never quite understand how the song got so popular. George had been right—they are quite decent in the noise-making business after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They went separate ways after lunch, each watching artists they wanted to see. After Sharon van Etten’s set at the Pyramid, Charles decided to visit the hospitality tent. Grab a bite, see what’s what, who’s who. He suspected that the security personnel letting him through had recognized him, might be a fan. Charles smiled at them knowingly, giving them a wink. Might as well make their day the only way he knew he could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took a bit to get his bearings, get used to the glamor not usually common on festival grounds. The tent was dim even in daylight, a twenty-four-seven nightclub, spotlights dancing through the space. Music played in the background, some soft electronic number he didn't recognize but reminded him of Jamie xx and Jai Paul. The flooring below his feet was pristine despite the bustling activity, maybe because it was still the Friday of the festival. Drinks would be spilled and make the floor stick a little later. He grabbed a flute of champagne offered to him and made his way to the outdoor area, squinting at the afternoon sunlight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oi, Charles! Charles!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked around, trying to locate the source of the familiar voice. He turned around and saw Lando hobbling towards him, looking almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>green. </span>
  </em>
  <span>"You okay, mate?" Charles asked. He was scanning around, keen on either spotting familiar faces or finding the nearest exit, he wasn't sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lando pried the flute of champagne he was holding and downed it in one go before Charles had a chance to protest or remind him of his spell last night, face twisting in disgust as he did. He recalled Lando mentioning his distaste for the bubbly at some point. "Yes. No. I don't know, Charles, how are you supposed to react to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Phil Collins </span>
  </em>
  <span>complimenting your work?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snapped his head to properly look at Lando. "Damn."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Exactly. I think I just made an absolute fool of myself, we have to get out of here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Leave the country and assume a new identity, while you're at it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't give me ideas."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles wanted to continue teasing him, he really did. Lando did look so visibly distressed, however, and he wasn't exactly feeling at home there either. "Okay, off to the West Holts we go," he said instead, plucking the empty glass from Lando's hand and setting it on the nearest table he could find. "I'll grab something to eat first."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They found the food bars and Charles grabbed the nearest foil-wrapped roll, hoping it would be something he liked, then scouted for the nearest exit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What's that?" Lando asked as they made it past the security checkpoint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Dunno." Charles tore the foil, examined the content. The smell of barbecued chicken and garlic filled his nostrils. "Shawarma, I think." He took a bite. It was pretty good. "Want some?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't mind if I do."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a bit of a walk to get to the West Holts, spent passing the shawarma back and forth. They stopped to refill the foldable water bottle Lando carried with him at all times after Lando's phone lit up with a reminder to stay hydrated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Who are you seeing?" Charles asked when they reached the grounds near the West Holts Stage, squinting into the program booklet. "I think I'll go check out The Japanese House at the Avalon."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Martin Garrix. What, you're ditching me?" Lando said, despairing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't care too much for his music, unfortunately. You're meeting a friend anyway, no?" Charles was already looking around for landmarks so he could follow the map to the Avalon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, but he's—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright, I'll come back here to see you later. The set is starting soon, I better get going!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles didn't hear Lando saying who the friend he was supposed to be meeting was. He probably didn't know the person, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>As it turned out, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> know Lando's friend. Well, sort of. And the person knew him too, in a way. Lando had excused himself to use the toilet, so it was just the two of them in the VIP area.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You look awfully familiar, Charles," one Max Verstappen said as they shook hands. "I can't quite place it, though."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles almost wanted to laugh at himself. Of course Lando would know Max from his karting days. And somehow they stayed in touch. To be fair, he didn't know all that much about Lando's motorsports background except for the little he, George, and Alex had mentioned in the passing, how it had been cut short, how it still affected him to this date. Still it shouldn't surprise him too much, knowing how karting rivals of the same generation tended to stick together and become friends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, surely you know my brother Lo," Charles offered, an amiable smile on his face. "Lorenzo Leclerc? Your new performance engineer?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Holy shit," Max laughed. "No way, Lorenzo's brother! Small world, unbelievable. Doesn't he—don't you have a brother in F2 as well?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Arthur, yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He's doing well," Max nodded, pursing his lips, impressed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles smiled despite himself. "Leading the championship, yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Will I be racing against him next season?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No idea," Charles shrugged. He genuinely did not know. He and his family didn't talk all that often, but not for the lack of trying, the unread messages on his phone piling up high. Guilt threatened to gnaw at him. "No, seriously, I don't have a clue," he insisted, chuckling, when Max's expression grew sceptical. "I'm just the black sheep of the family," he shrugged again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know, you're doing quite well yourself, mate. Playing the Pyramid tomorrow and whatnot."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I guess so," Charles conceded. "You'll come check our set out tomorrow and put on a good word to Lorenzo and Arthur, yeah?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course! Lando would kill me if I don't."</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Artists would emerge and fade into obscurity all the time. The select lucky few would survive and make a career out of music. That was the nature of the industry, competitive and oversaturated as it was. Once in a generation there would be those subverting expectations, rewriting trends, inspiring generations of performers to come. Three artists who were arguably among this group of greats were headlining the festival. The first of three: Lady Gaga.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The label managed to arrange for them to watch her set from the sound table. Charles arrived mid-set having trekked from the West Holts after Justice's set, wrestling his way through the crowd before finally making it to the entrance of the barricaded area.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spotted his bandmates. Approached them, eyes trained on the stage. Someone passed him a cup of drink as soon as he arrived, which he accepted without looking—Coke. The sickly sweet beverage was not his favorite by miles but after his long walk, he was grateful for anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles looked over to his friends, all spellbound by the performance. Lando and their tour managers bellowed along, knowing all the words. Alex, trying to keep up with them. George, eyes trained on the stage, the gears in his head refusing to slow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Pyramid. People as far as his sight went, the tops of their heads and raised arms illuminated by the colorful lights, the iconic sea of flags waving when the occasional breeze of cool wind swept by the farm, the flagpoles swaying to the movement of the crowd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tomorrow evening Hairpin Turns would stand there, too. Tomorrow the crowd would be theirs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Funny where life could lead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Their manager ushered them back to camp before the encore, insisting they should beat the crowd. They sneaked in and out of restricted spaces, taking the shortcut through the interstage area. Perks of having all-access passes. It was just after midnight when they arrived.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No more shenanigans. Rest up, lads, big day tomorrow," their manager said. "Interviews start at ten, so you all better be ready by nine."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They replied with a chorus of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, Ma'am!</span>
  </em>
  <span> and she nodded curtly before leaving for her own campsite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lando ran his hand through his hair, grimacing at the sweat and grime matting it. "Shower, anyone?" He already had his towel around his shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I need to go to the storage lockers first," George said. They kept their valuables there. "Anyone need anything?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You can all go first, I promised to call Lily," Alex replied at the same time, looking up from his phone, lips pressed thin. "If I can get a signal, that is."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah, she’s competing today, right?" Charles remarked before turning to George. "Just the power banks, my phone is dying.” Charles went back to his tent and emerged with a tote bag filled with toiletries. “I'm gonna go get food after showering. Want anything?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Chips?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, wouldn't mind something from the chippy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nothing for me, thanks."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright, then."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Charles returned to the camp with a paper bag full of fish and chips in tow, George was playing the </span>
  <em>
    <span>guitar. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The acoustic guitar he'd bought at a yard sale for five quid or something, Charles remembered him saying, the one he knew George liked to write with. The mahogany body was scratched and chipped, the missing dots on the fretboard repainted with the sparkly silver nail polish Alex nicked from one of his sisters, the tuning pegs missmatched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It looked comically small in his hands as George plucked it lightly, keeping the volume down despite the general lack of noise discipline—DJ sets were in full swing, and people on the other side of the wall were all still partying the night away, par for the course at festivals. Bringing a guitar and </span>
  <em>
    <span>writing songs,</span>
  </em>
  <span> though. It didn't surprise him as much as it probably should. Charles carried his notebook everywhere he went, too. Inspiration had a tendency to come when it's least expected. But a </span>
  <em>
    <span>guitar. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Not part of their touring gear, brought specifically should song ideas come knocking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles waited until George paused and tapped on his phone, stopping the recording. "A strike of inspiration?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Couldn't get it out of my mind since lunchtime," George looked up, smiling. "You know how it is."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did, indeed. "Bringing your guitar here, though. Some dedication," Charles said, setting the food on the table. "Sure you're not hungry?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll just nick some off you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course you would." Charles ran his hand through his still-damp hair before tucking into his meal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George tapped on his phone and started playing again, so Charles ate in silence, listening. Noting the strumming pattern of what he thought was the intro, shifting into another motif after four repetitions. Rapidly shifting up and down the frets a few times with the same strumming pattern, then picking the chords fingerstyle. He tapped to stop the recording again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I still have to rethink the transition from the pre-chorus to the refrain," George said more to himself than to Charles. He then put a capo on the fretboard, testing the tone with a few strums before hitting the record button again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He liked this. It felt familiar, reminding him of working in the studio or their jam sessions all their years ago. Little else mattered but the music they were working to craft and polish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles watched as George started playing from the beginning, faster this time, picking the motif of the intro as a riff instead. Focused, zoned in, lost to the music. How his brow furrowed in concentration, eyes hardening, though the slide of his fingers on the fret was unwavering, effortless. It was mesmerizing. Did he look as captivating when playing music? Charles wished he did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And before he could stop himself, Charles found himself </span>
  <em>
    <span>looking</span>
  </em>
  <span> at George. The flutter of his eyelashes, the clench of his jaw, the color rising in his cheeks. The way his lips would curl when he got to a section that was particularly challenging, the memory of them pressing against his own in Edinburgh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What do you think?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn't realize George had stopped playing too many heartbeats ago. He was caught staring. The chips in front of him lay forgotten, the grease starting to soak through the wrapper. Warmth crept up the back of his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hummed his approval and nodded, although he didn't quite remember how the hook even went. "I could work with that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George fiddled at the capo. "You weren't listening."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I liked it!" It was a weak defense and he knew it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah? How did the bridge go?" George tilted his head, fingers drumming at the body of the guitar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles opened his mouth to answer but his mind drew blank. George's grin was entirely too smug. "Alright. My head was elsewhere. Take it from the top?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>There lay no malice in the course of action he'd taken, in dipping his toes into waters too stormy, too treacherous. At the very least, he had no intention of causing any harm. To their friendship, to their professional relationship. He was oh so weary of keeping too many secrets, too many aches and bruises to himself, and well, George had asked. Agonized over it, even, if Charles was to be presumptuous. So much it had thrown him off balance, affecting his performance on stage. And so Charles shared a piece of his story.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three years on, the feeling was fresh in his memory still, bright and searing, a blade slotted between his ribs, a fist landing a blow on his sternum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been thirty-five degrees Celsius in Madrid that day, yet when he received the news, cold gnawed through every fiber of his being. As if he'd been in the middle of a blizzard, bereft of all his senses except for the blank whiteness and numbing chill. The disorientation and the helplessness had to have been similar, he supposed. Something loud pounded at the edges of his consciousness, then. Probably just his own heartbeat. It might as well have been the distant rumble from the imminent avalanche of pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'd lost people before, people he truly held dear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Never this way. Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>him,</span>
  </em>
  <span> not this way, not when he'd never had a chance to tell him he'd been in love with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'd ended the phone call and collapsed onto the floor, almost knocking the bedside lamp on the nightstand over. He hugged his legs, leaning his head against the mattress, staring at the ceiling. The tears hadn't come. When he finally found the strength to pick the phone up again, it felt like he was piloting his body more than it actually being his. He told his manager he'd felt ill. Hairpin Turns had to cancel their Mad Cool Festival set.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That same night, perched on the bathroom counter so he wouldn't have to turn the light on and rouse Alex whom he'd been rooming with, he locked himself away in the passages scribbled on his notebook that would then become the lyrics to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Zero Hour.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(Aren't you a vision, my love, right as the rain,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Feet firm on the ground, yet you cast no shadow</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dreaming of heaven, of ablution from pain</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And off you go to a place I daren't follow</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[...]</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Must we kiss The Devil to see if it’s any fun?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He lured us with his Trill, sweet scherzando of deceit</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Too late now, too late now, nowhere left for us to run.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The clock strikes thirteen</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You count down to zero</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wish I could've been</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>your promised tomorrow.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Three years on, he finally shared this piece of his story with someone. That it turned out to be George was very much a surprise to himself. To both of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles didn't remember much how it exactly had gone, though, what he'd said, how he'd said it. Only fragments. Picking up a bottle of red at a Tesco near their lodging, barely making it fifteen minutes into the film they were watching before the dam broke. Words and tears had flowed freely, too freely. He woke up the next morning feeling lighter, freer than he'd ever felt in forever, in the arms of his friend-and-whatever-else-they-were-now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How disorienting yet liberating it was to entrust someone with one of his most painful memories.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Must he kiss him as a preambule, though? Probably not. He knew George would listen regardless. Charles simply was curious, and perhaps lonelier than he thought he was. And saying that it had simply felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>right </span>
  </em>
  <span>at the time would be an understatement. It could be all there was, and it would be fine. It didn't have to mean anything, did it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Charles couldn't explain away the couple of months on the road after Edinburgh, how he'd gravitate towards George as moths would be attracted to fire. He thought himself discreet enough, yet he knew when he reached a certain point he had a tendency to be as subtle as a punch on the jaw. One hug too long, one look too many.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when faced with the choice of pushing forward or doubling back, Charles knew he would always choose to push forward, no matter how treacherous the circumstances, no matter how dire the risk. He came with a radar constantly scanning for the ping of trouble. All it would ever take was the gentlest of push in the direction he already was heading into, the subtlest of hints that all of this might, afterall, not be as one-sided as he initially thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It all came down to something ripped straight out of a cheesy novel—a song and a look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George finished his writing session with a curt nod to himself. Not quite satisfied, but not too disappointed with his efforts either. Charles thought so too. The demo needed polishing, but it was promising. His head was running with ideas as well, rapid-fire verses flowing almost too fast for him to keep up. As George repeated from the top for the final time, he scribbled away some passages, handwriting growing less and less legible.</span>
</p><p><span>Then George started going through bits and pieces of various songs. Winehouse's </span><em><span>Back to Black</span></em><span>. Stevens' </span><em><span>Wild World.</span></em> <em><span>Black Hole Sun. </span></em><span>Not quite singing, mumbling, rather. Then, Buckley's </span><em><span>Lover, You Should've Come Over. </span></em><span>Properly sung, this time. One of his favorite songs, Charles remembered him saying.</span></p><p>
  <span>Charles looked up from his notebook, unfolding himself from his hunched over position in his seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He supposed with enough exposure, one could easily take anything for granted. George's talent, too. The timbre of his voice. The smooth, effortless way he launched into the demanding high notes. The way he always breathed his entire being into a song.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way he looked at Charles, earnest, too earnest. The way it robbed the air from his lungs, the way it made his stomach gallop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not for a second did Charles stop to think about their circumstances. What he was about to do, where they were, if their friends would find out. He rose from his seat and closed their short distance, looming over George who looked up at him with the same look still. A hint of challenge glinted in his irises. Cradling his jaw and leaning in to capture his lips only felt right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>He drifted slowly into consciousness, this time, not needing to check the time to know he had yet again risen before his alarm. For a second Charles lost his bearings, blinking in confusion at the warmth enveloping him. The body curled up with him, long limbs tangled with his own, the scent of the soft fabric of George's hoodie against his cheek. He shifted, looked up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Morning," Charles muttered, voice catching in his dry throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Big day, today."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah." George's smile was slow, pensive. "A whole bunch of interviews to go through first, though. Wish we could just fast forward to our set."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles nodded, knowing it would be felt, not answering. Closing his eyes and settling back into the crook of George's neck instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They allowed themselves to stay like so for a while. Just for a little while longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>"Oi! Missed me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Lando!" Alex straightened up as they arrived at the backstage holding tent after Lando's detour to the aid station. "Feeling better, mate?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Peachy," Lando said, giving a thumb's up. "Well, I'll survive. When do we have to start getting our gears ready?" They always were hands-on, always taking part in the equipment check, making sure their instruments are all set up the way they were supposed to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles took a seat next to Alex, sinking into the gaudy sofa. Finding himself itching to reach for either his notebook or his instrument, only half-listening to Alex and Lando. When Lando excused himself to meet with his friend—Max, the space grew quiet. He heard Alex heave a heavy sigh, so he turned to look at him with an eyebrow raised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm fine," Alex prompted without Charles having to voice his question. "Guess I was in denial of being nervous," he snickered. "Meditating helped."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, it's only the bloody </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pyramid Stage</span>
  </em>
  <span>, isn't it," George chimed in, their guitar technician in tow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright lads, it's almost showtime," the technician said. "Get your arses moving."</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>His Gretsch needed a change of strings, it turned out. It wasn't supposed to be used, but the last-minute setlist change called for it. Charles ran his hand through the electric blue body just to feel the smooth sheen of the varnish against the pads of his fingers, willing himself not to bite at them as he would out of habit whenever distracted or nervous. Perhaps he should've asked Alex to teach him how to meditate, but he was off somewhere, making calls to his family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought of family made his heart clench.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were on relatively good terms, actually. After having ignored their texts and calls for quite some time, however, it simply became too easy, too normal </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>to talk with each other. One wouldn't miss what they took for granted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps he'd been untethered for too long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hovered over the </span>
  <em>
    <span>call </span>
  </em>
  <span>button under the contact entry labeled </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mama.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Her relieved, surprised tone when she picked up cut deeper than he'd expected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Charles was sitting on the floor against a gear case, examining the Polaroid their tour manager took of the four of them using Alex's—Lily's—camera. One of the four taken so each of them would have one shot to keep. The photosensitive chemicals distorted the colors, painting them in a soft hue of cyan and magenta. It could've originated from the 80s. Ethereal, transcending time, almost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took his phone out, snapping the photo. Posting it to the band's Instagram. Chuckling when he realized Alex was doing the circle game gesture with his hand. Tucking his 'copy' away in the pocket of his Leuchtturm notebook. Prized possessions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well—where is he? Oi, Charles!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snapped up, almost dropping his pen. "Here!" The crate moved when he tried using it for leverage to get up, so he stumbled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His friends were at the foot of the ladder leading up to the stage, arm in arm. "Come on," Lando gestured for him to join.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, that was new. That wasn't something they usually did. A special set called for special backstage rituals, he supposed. Charles smiled to himself before hurrying himself to join the huddle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arm in arm, heads almost touching, they glanced between one another, exchanging grins and almost-nervous chuckles. Beyond them, they could hear the crowd starting a chant. Calling their name. Clapping in time to the beat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This is the part when someone is supposed to say something inspirational," George remarked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if on cue, they all turned to Alex.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What—why are you all looking at me like that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Say something," Charles urged. "Anything!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex groaned. "Uh. Let's have this, boys!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They roared in unison, a battle cry of sorts, before parting. Charles checked his phone. Four minutes to go. He fiddled with his IEMs before deciding to leave it dangling around his neck for now so he could hear the crowd when they made their way on stage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought time would trickle by when his adrenaline was running this high, but to Charles it felt like but a blink had passed before the intro song was starting to play and the stage manager ushered them to make their way on stage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One step after the other, Charles told himself when he climbed to the stage, second to last. He felt a hand reaching for his when they waited to emerge from the curtain. Their fingers linked for a fleeting moment. Charles turned to give George a smile before letting go, making his way to his spot on the stage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sea of people everywhere he saw, stretching to the edge of the horizon, almost, interrupted only by the fluttering and swaying banners and flags. The roar of the crowd as Charles picked up his guitar and slung it across his shoulder gave him goosebumps, so loud he almost couldn't hear himself think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It felt right. They belonged here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He belonged here.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30656513">Flying V</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gertika/pseuds/Gertika">Gertika</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
</body>
</html>